Leveraging Learning

This week, some ugliness stopped by. As a positive person who strives to see the good in the world, I am always a little surprised when ugliness is directed at others. Perhaps this is naivete on my part. I say and do mean stuff - all people say and do mean stuff. Humans are, after all, flawed. A few things were difficult about this week's flavor of ugliness, which made it feel even uglier. First, my kids were hurt - both of them individually and on behalf of a person we love. And they both felt powerless to rectify. It also was unexpected. I had assumed that relations with this party were in a better place. There was an element of betrayal - or at least a sense of loyalties that, to me, seemed off. And there was a revelation that the party in question just really doesn't like me at all. Certainly, others have a right to express their opinions and feelings, but when does that right cross over into an attack? I am not certain that I have an answer - outside of "it depend

I dropped my youngest off at college a little more than three weeks ago. The running family joke was that I should avoid this event at all costs to spare myself and others the embarrassing blubbering and sobbing that would no doubt ensue. I, apparently, have a reputation for crying. I am proud to say that I held things together pretty well. It wasn't until I got into the car, after a long walk around campus and the city with both of my boys and I saw Charlie walking his confident walk up the hill and off to new adventures that I started to cry. Sob, really. I was glad that I had packed some extra hankies for myself. But my tears really weren't what you'd think. While I knew that I would miss him keenly over the next few weeks (or months or years) and that his absence would be felt in ways I could not imagine, I was not crying tears of sadness. The world deserves to know my boy - his kindness, his gift of song, his humor, his brilliance, his compassion, his sense of fa

An often heard comment among teachers is "A room full of kids is no problem, but I get so nervous talking to a room full of adults." We feel this way every Back to School Night, whenever we have to facilitate a faculty meeting and most especially when we are teaching other adults. It's scary. We feel vulnerable, out of our element and certain that what we have to say is meaningless. I went to bed on Sunday feeling all of these things in preparation for my role in facilitating learning at Summer Teaching Institute. My units aren't all that awesome, my students are kinda messy and I sometimes - especially on a Friday - wing it. What could I possibly share with new teachers? Monday morning on my train ride in, I set a little goal: Get over this nonsense by Friday. And never again say out loud "I'm not good at teaching adults." Over the centuries of education in America, teachers have been sent and have internalized a very clear message - Do the im

I had an amazing and exhausting spring. Finishing year three at SLAMS, attending all of the end of the school year celebrations, concerts, shows and dances, watching both of my children graduate from high school on the same day, and remembering to thank all the people who made this amazingness possible was a steep hill to climb. In the midst of the mayhem of remembering deadlines, finishing grades, shopping for graduation finery, and connecting the many people who needed thanks or farewells, I made some costly mistakes. I lost my new bifocals at the mall because I was trying to wear both sunglasses and reading glasses at the same time. I parked in a no parking zone on the last day of school because I was too tired read the sign. I sustained the few garden injuries in my haste to tidy up the yard for a party we were having to celebrate the graduates. I forgot to pay my life insurance bill. My computer broke on the last day of school (and is still at the laptop hospital, so I'm usi

My youngest son turned 18 last week, so I am officially the mom of adults. This is a weird transition for me. As a classic nurturer, I like to make dinner for the people, sew on the buttons, mend the injuries both physical and emotional and, most especially, put a blanket on the sleeping. This last habit is a particularly annoying one, as I have been known to put blankets on most sleepers I encounter - my kids, people staying at the beach house and even the student who falls asleep in my classroom (for which a jacket functions very much like a blanket). Last month, I was staying at my mom's house and immediately before bed, my nephew said, "Hey, Aunt Nan, it really isn't cold tonight, so I won't be needing the extra blanket." To me, the blanket is a metaphor for all the nurturing things out there: love, comfort, support, empathy, compassion, sustenance, forgiveness, encouragement and hope. When I put it on a person, these are the things I imagine placing upon

Dear Families, Thank you for getting your kid to school each day. Without them, we'd have no reason to show up and do what we love. Thank you for teaching them to be kind, to ask questions and to do the right things. You'll be pleased to learn that most of the time, they do. Thank you for helping them with the projects and questions that they are too afraid to ask others or that we run out of time to work on. Your ideas and input deepen the learning and make it more real. Thank you for sending in treats when they and their classmates are hungry. And thank you for celebrating their big moments with us - first days, performances, Senior Nights and birthdays. It is a privilege for us to make the photos that will one day be family relics. Thank you for holding kids accountable for the things they do and for helping them move beyond their mistakes. And thank you for reminding us that they are beloved, even when the mistakes are large. I know that schools don't do an